


Luck's a Funny Thing

by 1848pianist



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Battle, Hospitals, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1848pianist/pseuds/1848pianist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Injured in the trenches, Joly and Bossuet find themselves in a hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luck's a Funny Thing

Joly had decided what he hated most about war; not the cold, nor the shelling, nor the terrible food. Not even the constant fear of death. When terror was constant, you got used to it.

No, mostly he just hated the ever-present muck that was a reality of trench life. He didn’t dare think about what he might be standing, sitting, or sleeping on at any given moment – he had enough on his mind without worrying about that. But once he got out of this whole mess he thought he would never go outside again. Just thinking about the cold, wet trench mud and the ever-present layer of filth on his skin made him shudder.

“I swear I’m getting typhoid. Or influenza. Or something,” he said as Bossuet sat down next to him. It was a miracle that Bossuet had managed to stay in one piece through the battles – he had the worst luck Joly had ever seen, though thankfully it only seemed to affect him, and not his comrades. He was constantly misfiring, or slipping in the churned-up muck, or losing something. Despite this he was a decent fighter.

“Aren’t we all. Well, cheer up. Maybe they’ll send you home to die,” Bossuet joked. He was used to Joly’s complaining by then. It was a familiar constant, he liked to say.

Joly glared at him. “There’s nothing funny about typhoid,” he admonished, though he was only half-serious. “You wait.”

As he spoke, they heard the all-too-familiar report of exploding shells. Bossuet cursed under his breath as they ran to battle positions, falling into place with practiced ease.

“This is rather unusual!” Bossuet yelled over the tumult. “I don’t think we’ve ever been attacked at this time of day!”

“Well, why not?” Joly shouted back. “It’s as good as any other time!

Joly found himself fighting next to a young English boy that had recently come in with the replacements. It was doubtful that he was over eighteen – Joly suspected he was closer to sixteen. This would be his first battle, then. For someone so young, he hadn’t lost his nerve yet.

This particular skirmish was already going on longer than most did, Joly noticed. At the moment, however, he didn’t have time to contemplate, so he thought nothing more of it until he heard the whistling of a shell overhead. It looked as though it would land far behind them, though, so he ignored it.

It exploded far past the trench, as he had predicted. The English boy glanced around in shock at the noise, his eyes widening in horror at something behind them.

“Gas!” he screamed.

Joly whipped around, and sure enough, an ominous yellow cloud was moving slowly towards them, blown upwind to the trench.

“Masks!” he yelled, almost forgetting about the shelling in front of them.

“There aren’t enough,” Bossuet reported. “At least the wind will blow the gas into the other trench, if we’re lucky,” he said grimly.

Joly cursed, avoiding impalement by shrapnel by a fraction of inch. “Hope that the wind changes, then.”

The wind, unfortunately, seemed to have other ideas.

“Get down,” Joly commanded. “We’ll have to wait it out.” Shrapnel flew past again, but he ignored it – nothing he could do about it.

He pulled Bossuet down to the bottom of the trench – it was filthy – and turned his head to make sure the young English boy had followed. Joly saw he was kneeling, at least, knees sunk in the churned-up mud that was the floor of the trench. He looked up, revealing the wound in his chest from the last round of shelling.

Joly heard Bossuet curse behind him, but there was nothing either of them could do for the boy. Then the gas was on them and they were burying their faces in the ground, eyes firmly closed and trying not to breathe.

At first, there was only a tingling – slightly painful, but manageable. Joly pulled his sleeve over his mouth, trying to breathe as little as possible without blacking out, knowing that as soon as he was unconscious he would be dead. The tingling increased to burning in his lungs, like acid – _well, exactly like acid_ , he thought. He could hear Bossuet coughing beside him and listened for any sign of the English boy, but there was nothing. He hoped the others in the trench had at least been prepared for the gas, masks or not.

The burning in his lungs was becoming unbearable when a shell landed a few feet away. Everything went black.

*

By some miracle, Bossuet woke up. He hadn’t expected, with his luck, to have survived. It hurt to breathe, and the involuntary coughing only made that worse, but he seemed to be otherwise unharmed. Okay, maybe not entirely unharmed; as he returned to consciousness he could feel the burns on his legs. They seemed to be in one piece, though, and at least promised to be functional again someday.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” a pleasant voice said somewhere to his right. A dark-haired nurse was holding a roll of bandages – for his legs, he assumed. She was extremely pretty, he noticed.

“Where’s Joly?” he asked, voice hoarse and rasping.            

“If Joly is the young man brought in with you, then he is still unconscious,” the nurse replied, changing Bossuet’s bandages with practiced expertise.

“Yes, that’s him,” Bossuet choked out. “Is he alright?”

“There’s no way to know until he wakes up. His injuries are more serious than yours.” Her expression darkened slightly, but she didn’t look up from her work. “Both of you were lucky to survive.”

He nodded, knowing she was right. “I’m Bossuet, by the way.”

“Musichetta,” she replied with a slight smile, slipping out of the room to continue her duties.

*

Joly was moved to the same room as Bossuet early the next day. Musichetta had been right about his injuries; even from a distance Bossuet could see the burns on Joly’s arms and face. He had woken up just long enough for them to see his ruined eyes – he had been blinded by the gas.

Bossuet had learned from Musichetta that the skirmish had ended soon after he gas had reached them. They had been among the few survivors from their section of the trench. The English boy had not made it, but his body had been found when Joly and Bossuet were rescued. His name had been Jacob, or so Musichetta told him.

*

“Hello?”         

Bossuet jumped at the sound of Joly’s voice, strained and rasping as it was. Perhaps Bossuet had been more anxious than he cared to admit after three days of waiting for any sign of recovery in his friend.

“Joly, you’re awake. It’s Bossuet. We made it out; they got us to a hospital.” He knew that this was a remarkable piece of luck. Few wounded soldiers had the pleasure of recovering in a hospital these days – and as hospitals went, Bossuet thought they might be the luckiest in France. Musichetta ran the entire operation out of her home, and took only as many wounded as she could attend to, so conditions were drastically better than even the average sickbay.

“Hospital?” Joly asked hesitantly. He reached up, probing the bandages on his face. Bossuet saw the realization dawning slowly in his expression. “I’m blind, aren’t I?” he asked flatly.

“Better blind than dead. We were lucky to get out of there at all,” Bossuet said.

“I suppose.”

Musichetta entered then, smiling at seeing Joly fully conscious at last.

“It’s good to see that you’re recovering,” she said as she crossed the room to Joly’s cot. He started, turning his head follow her voice across the room.

“I’m Musichetta,” she continued, letting Joly learn her voice, Bossuet realized. “Your injuries are serious, but now that you’re awake you have a good chance of full recovery.”

“Full recovery?”

Musichetta, busy changing Joly’s bandages, paused slightly. “Aside from your eyes, that is,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing to be done.”

Joly didn’t reply, just nodded silently, seeming resigned.

When Musichetta left, Bossuet shifted to face Joly as best he could without jarring his slowly healing legs.

“I’m sorry, Joly.”

Joly shook his head. “You’re right. Better blind than dead,” he repeated. He turned his head towards Bossuet, making a frustrated sound when he realized it was pointless.

“Does it hurt?” Bossuet asked.

“Like hell,” Joly replied. Bossuet winced in sympathy.

“But,” Joly said somewhat more cheerfully, “I believe this will keep me out of the war.”

*

Over the course of the next week, both men were finally allowed out of bed. Walking, they found, was a more difficult process than they had expected.

“Well, this is great fun,” Joly said sarcastically, standing completely still lest he hit a knee on the bedframe or a table again.

“Need a hand?” Bossuet limped over to his friend, trying to avoid anything that might aggravate his burns while navigating through the tiny room.

“A pair of eyes, actually.”

“Well, technically, you still have both of yours,” Musichetta said brightly as she swept into the room.

Bossuet, surprised by her sudden appearance, caught his elbow on the bedside table, toppling the water jug to the floor.

“Sorry, Musichetta, I didn’t see it.”

“Yeah, but what’s your excuse?” Joly teased.

“You’d think that severe burns on your legs would get you some sympathy, at least in matters of balance.”

“Or lack thereof,” Musichetta added.

“You mean,” Joly said, struggling to contain his laughter, “you haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

Bossuet groaned, smacking Joly on the arm with his pillow.

“That’s hardly fair!”

Musichetta shook her head. “At this rate, you’ll injure each other and never be able to leave. You’re already the only ones still here.”

“There are worse places,” Bossuet said.

“Don’t listen to him; he’s an impossible flirt,” Joly interrupted.

“And you aren’t?”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” said Musichetta with a wry look.

*

As soon as they were able, the two began helping Musichetta around the house as thanks for their treatment. Bossuet, it turned out, was a fairly good cook, and Joly, knowing medicine, was able to help Musichetta with incoming patients, of which there were many.

“I hope I’m not keeping you away from your family,” Musichetta said to Joly one day. She had brought the subject up with Bossuet before, who had told her not to worry.

“Haven’t got one,” Joly replied. “Nor does Bossuet – we’re both rather unattached.”

“Surely you have something to go back to.”

“Only an apartment in Paris, which for all I know has been taken over by this point.”

“In that case,” Musichetta said, “I invite both of you to stay here as assistants. I could use some help with the hospital, especially during the war.”

Joly smiled. “I accept.”


End file.
